Ink & Roses
by Chaouen
Summary: Sandor's rambling letter to the Lady of Winterfell while he is at the Quiet Isle. [Written for a handwritten letter exchange with Kitamere]


**A/N:** The text between [ ] is meant to be crossed out.

If you like this letter, you can read Sansa's answer and their following letters in this same fic Archive of Our own (AO3)

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><p>To the Lady of Winterfell.<p>

I bet you gave me up for dead, little bird. Maybe you wish I were. I cannot blame you; last time you saw me I was holding a knife over your pretty throat. Nevertheless, in a way, the Hound died the day that bitch-wolf sister of yours left me to die by the Trident. Not that I could blame her either, I deserved to die alone right there like the dog I am. You know, it's funny where a man's mind flies when facing a certain death. I guess some men think of their wives, their last fucks or even pray to the gods. However, when I was lying there, bleeding to death, all that came to my mind was you being beaten by that bastard Meryn Trant while I stood by like a gutless coward, doing nothing. Bloody buggering hells, I tell you that image still haunts me at nights.

Unfortunately, I didn't die, but life at this Isle isn't any better. The only person I'm allowed to talk to is the Elder Brother and I guess the man is brainwashing my mind because it was his idea that I write to you. I'm surrounded by monks praying most of the day, there are no women, nor wine or ale. Seven hells, how I long for a flagon of Dornish wine!

Do you remember the Tourney of the Hand, little bird? When Robert proclaimed me champion? That night I got drunk, went whoring, and felt it could have being a perfect day if only I had also killed my brother. I've been recently recalling that day over and over again. I thought it was because of the gold - that champion's purse contained enough golden dragons to make me a rich man – or the feast that followed, but all my mind was able to evoke clearly was you, smiling and cheering at me when the Tyrell boy raised my hand. I guess that was the last time I saw you happy - all that came after was a nightmare for you, including my presence. Anyhow, I regret not having done something that day. As the champion, I had the right to name the Queen of Love and Beauty of the Tourney. I pissed on that and when the people stopped clapping, I hastened to celebrate drinking. Hells, I should have done it! I bet all the smiles would have died on their mouths - yours included - when they saw me handing _you_ the crown. Or maybe not, may be you'd been flattered and you'd feel like the princess of one of those silly songs you loved so much. Well, I didn't do it then, but I do it now. Along with this letter, I'm sending you the crown you should have worn that day. Aye, I know, as I've told you, my brains have gone soft staying here for so long. One of the women who regularly come to the Isle to sell their goods made it. ^[She says it's worthy of a Queen]. The old hag asked if it was an offering for the Maiden, bloody fool! Who would think that the ladylike Sansa Stark of Winterfell would receive such a thing from the craven Hound! Ha! I can see you now, holding this shitty paper in your hands, your pretty face flushed with embarrassment. You can laugh at me or feed the flowers to the pigs if you want, not that I care. Sansa Stark... I guess I've never called you by your given name, have I? _S a n s_ _a_… It's a fine name, though in my dreams you'll always be the sweet soft-spoken _little bird_, beautiful and frightened, in need of [my] protection.

Now that you've returned to your home, do yourself a favor girl; don't look back to those years. Try to forget, marry a good northern boy and watch grow your children. Sing songs to them even. Let that bright smile you lost return to your face and never again travel south. I plan to leave the Quiet Isle as soon as my leg stops aching. After the war, I may find some lord in need of men at arms at his keep who wants to hire me. I'm not tired of living yet and fighting is the only thing I've ever been good at. As long as there is wine, decent food, some coins and [I dream of you at nights] die holding a sword, I'll consider myself satisfied.

Anyway, tear this letter as soon as you read it little bird; my words are nothing more than ramblings of a troubled man.

[The Ho] S. Clegane


End file.
